Coming Back

It beckons, doesn't it? An oak leaf strewn trail in early autumn, shaded from the still-warm sun by overhanging branches. The only sounds heard that of a scolding jay and an equally annoyed woodpecker.

As I step onto this trail in mid-morning, I immediately smell apple pie baking at the adjacent apple farm, and my stomach rumbles. I have an apple and a way-too-healthy protein bar (made from a paste of dates, raisins, bananas, cashews, etc) in my backpack, but dang. Who wouldn't want a huge slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee on this glorious morning? And what better place to get both than in Oak Glen, California? Thank you, Universe, that such blessings exist, such opportunities are available. But today I am hiking. And off I go.

Here's the thing about that sign: Ever come across road signs that say, "Flagman ahead. Prepare to stop" but then you keep driving and see no one for like two miles? Yeah, so, this is like that. The truth is, the trail winds down a very pleasant downhill path. Very pleasant. Very...downhill. So it's easy to keep going, keep wondering what you'll see as you round the next bend. The "steep" part is in the last third of the loop, at which point you reach a set of steps carved into a steep hill and it's just up and up and up for a quarter of a mile. For those of us with holey lungs (and I mean that most literally--hole-y), much panting is required.

Dear Cousin (because I know you're reading this, looking at this sign, wondering if I'm safe, if I'm crazy), I will admit to pausing for a few minutes before continuing down the trail. Now, I've been down this same trail a time or two or three--but this time was the first time walking the entire trail without my son or my friends or my dog. (No, Thomas wasn't with me, sad to say.) So I stopped to ponder my fate, reflect upon my life, my odds of survival, my need to still take a few risks at this age (66, if you're keeping track), how I might defend myself (hiking stick)--or call for help (cell phone, yep, still got reception). As all this was zinging through my mind, I heard another hiker on the trail, coming from the opposite direction, talking loudly. I saw why when she came into view, saw me with my mask on and paused her conversation to pull hers up. I thanked her, at which point the beautiful gray and white pit bull she had on a leash lunged across the trail at me, wagging his tail furiously, dancing from foot to foot, telling me excitedly "We're doing walks! We're doing walks! I smelled stuff everywhere! I peed everywhere! We're doing good walks!!!!" I petted his head and he slobbered all over my hand, which I accepted as a Holy Dog Anointed Blessing, and I moved on down the trail in the direction they had come up. I mean, let's face it; had there been a mountain lion around, it would have slunk off when Loud Lady and Big Dog showed up.

I assume this was true for the bear, too. Oh, there was definitely a bear. I followed his fresh (as in, still glistening) piles of scat down the trail, sighting four in a half-mile stretch (and yes, each one appearing more fresh as I went). What does a bear's poop look like if said bear is lucky enough to live near all the apple farms of Oak Glen? Why, it's sort of its own type of, er, apple pie:

At this point in the trail, I stopped again. In the movies, this is where the mountain lion would be lurking, hanging off that tree trunk bent over the trail. In real life, of course, mountain lions behave like cats, hiding in tall grass and thick brush, blending in--until they pounce with incredible speed and force (unless you have a large dog with you and you're making a lot of noise, which I didn't and I wasn't, so I started singing instead).

When you reach the top of the trail, this is what you see now: Ashes. The hills above Oak Glen, all the way around the town, from Cherry Valley to Yucaipa, are burned down to rubble from the El Dorado fire, which is still burning this morning and only 68% contained. How firefighters kept that fire from destroying the entire town, I have no idea. I just know that they're amazing.

The trail tops out at Oak Knoll picnic area and, lest you think you've survived the trail unscathed, best mind your feet all the way across to the parking lot; rattlesnakes live here. The last time I walked through it, my son and I spotted a baby rattler (gasp!) coiled around a grassy tuft, with people sitting a few yards away, enjoying a picnic, kids running everywhere. We warned them and everyone else around, and a brave soul used a very long stick to encourage the baby snake to take a nap somewhere else.

This is how I celebrated upon returning to my car: Apple cider mini-donuts and a cup of coffee. O, how joyous!

Just what was I celebrating? Being able to walk again. I have been struggling for many weeks with another bout of sciatica, unable to do the most basic chores around the house, unable to garden, just barely getting a short walk in with Thomas before needing to lie down on the living room floor and stretch my back. Slowly in the last two weeks, I've felt better. I was able to walk a bit farther every day. This was my first real hike in a long time, and I felt great. Thanks, Universe. I needed that.

 

Recovery

For those of you who are less than super-tech-savvy, I often include links to more information on certain topics in my posts. When a word or a phrase is in purplish-blue instead of black, that indicates a link (which you can click on) to read more information about the subject of that word or phrase. 🙂

If you haven't read my previous post, you might not know that I've been putting up with a tiny bit of illness since mid-November.

I'm better now. Much better. A week ago I saw Stephanie, a Physical Therapist at Kaiser Redlands (who is terrific, by the way—kind, patient, empathetic and a great teacher). She did some evaluation, told me she suspected I have Cervicogenic Dizziness, and gave me some exercises that are classified as Vestibular Therapy to unlock the stiffness in my neck (which I will discuss further in a sec—keep reading because that's the human interest part).

It was a lot to take in, but I will tell you I was literally sitting on the edge of my chair as I listened to her, and I was so relieved when she said, "Oh yeah, I think we can relieve your symptoms" that I had to will myself not to start crying. ("Focus, Kay, focus," said the rational part of my brain.) Even as she demonstrated and had me do the exercises, I began to feel a bit of relief from the constant wooziness. Now, one week later, I am immensely improved—so much so that I think after another few weeks of doing the exercises I will feel better than I have in years in terms of the chronic neck pain I've had forever. (Well, not literally "forever," but you know what I mean. I haven't even been alive for "forever." Kinda feels like it sometimes, though.)

Two funny bits to share (and this is where the human interest part comes in):

My crush in the sixth grade was Ricky Smith. He liked me, too, and he came over to the house a few times, took me square dancing and gave me a St. Christopher medallion. After school one day, he mentioned that I should relax more, telling me, "You walk around school with your shoulders all hunched up." Oh my Buddha! How embarrassing that he noticed! Yet... how true. At eleven years old, I had already experienced enough in life to keep me in a state of constant cringing. So add all that neck tension to the injuries I sustained to my head and neck around the same time (from getting tossed off horses), and you have the makings of chronic neck pain.

Also: Kudos to my bestie Donna who had read my previous post, so when I told her about the cervicogenic dizziness diagnosis she was able to link the onset of it with that two-hour stint in the dentist chair for the crown. (Her super-power is analytical reasoning.) I don't think I've mentioned on the blog before that my childhood dentist was a sadist. No, I mean, he actually was a sadist. For thirty years, I have seen my dentists twice a year, but it still triggers profound anxiety.

I want to extend giant hugs to all my friends, family members and blog readers who prayed for/chanted for/sent energy to me plus all those who continued behind the scenes to make suggestions as to what might be the cause. I love all of you, and thanks so much for your support through these weeks. You kept me on the sunny side of life while I was slogging away with the docs, trying to find a resolution.

Life is good! (Hence the smiley seal pictured above.)

Walking toward the light

As I write this, I am sipping caramel hot cocoa (Swiss Miss--you can shake some sea salt on the top to make salted caramel and oh my Buddha, is it decadent). Sugar Plum, The Dowager Queen (as we refer to her here in the castle) is curled on her own office chair beside me--on her own soft pillow, as all queens should be accommodated. Purrl is... I don't know, but my bet would be that I'll find her wherever I find Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Tommy is curled in a ball somewhere, sleeping, as he is worn out after our hike. Let me begin again....

A week ago, Thomas had to be seen by a vet because of an ear infection. At the old house, I would simply call my Home Vet, Dr. David Lebovic, and he would stop by in the afternoon, administering shots or whatever we needed. Now that we're out here, it's time Thom got past his terror of all things new and actually visited a vet's office. He did, and he was a champ through it all. When we got home, I reached down to remove his collar and, wonder of wonder, he stretched his face up to mine and touched noses with me. This is a dog who turns his face away if I get too close. This is a dog who holds a grudge for two or three days or a week if he's been hurt or frightened. This is a dog who never learned how to give affection. But when he kissed my nose, I knew he was saying thank you. That ear must've hurt really bad. He knew we went through all that with the doc so he could feel better. Dogs... are so great....

And I've been recovering, too--from my injured foot, from John's death (see previous post), from the insanity in the world. (Well, I don't guess I'll ever recover from that until I leave this place.) Today was a fine day, though, with both of us feeling better. So we headed off to Bogart Park, a ten-minute drive away, and started down this road at about 4:15.

By 4:25, the sun's light was a glow rather than a shine, and some of our trail was in shadow already.

A few moments and a steep hill later, we turned to see this view to the south. 

The photo doesn't capture all the color, all that the eye can see--the deepening shadows in the woods contrasting with the rosy hue of the sky. And if only I could include the scent of the wild sage and aging oak duff here! We stood for a moment and listened to the woodpeckers talking companionably as they settled in for the night. Then we turned and walked back to the truck in the dying light.

All told, it was a thirty-minute interlude of exercise, fresh air, some pretty scenes and a whole lot of endorphins. Thomas and I will both sleep well tonight.

Reciprocity

As I write this, it is late for me—after 10:30p.m. I am sitting on the floor, my laptop wobbling on my crossed legs. Actually, I am not sitting on the floor directly; I'm sitting on Sgt. Thomas Tibb's dog bed, which is on the floor next to the couch. When he is really, really frightened, he leaves his sanctuary in my office to curl as close to the couch as he can get. Tonight he is so terrified by the ongoing explosions outside, I crawl down onto the floor to sit next to him, and this boy who never offers his affection curls against my knee, panting, every muscle in his body tense as he waits for the next bomb to go off.

My neighbors have been detonating illegal fireworks—cherry bombs and M80s—for weeks in the run-up to the Fourth of July. The antics begin every evening around 8:00 and continue for a couple of hours. As I write this it is Saturday night, and I guess we're into overtime on blowing things up because it's the weekend. Thomas and I endured the same routine last year—from June until a week or so after July 4th—only last year he would not stay in the house. He was so frightened, the only place he felt safe was in the back seat of my truck. So for all those weeks, I never went anywhere at night unless I rode with someone else so that he would have a safe place to hide. This year, he has at least recovered from his First Life enough to stay inside with me, for the most part. I have taken to sleeping on the couch, though, because as long as I am close, he will at least lie still (instead of pacing, panting and drooling as he did last year).

Tonight he is exhausted, having been in this state of hyper-vigilance for hours, but just as his head begins to droop against my thigh, another boom resounds through the neighborhood, and his head jerks up as his tongue lolls out with his panting, drops of saliva dripping onto his blanket.

I will stay here with him until it is over, until he can finally relax and sleep. We're buds. I've got his back, just as he had mine some weeks ago.

It's still hard for me to believe how far this dog has come from the emotionally broken shell he was when I brought him home just over a year ago. In January, I posted about his progress. In March, he added a new trick to his exuberant joy by including a complete 360 degree spin to the ecstatic figure eights he races when I come home from work each day. What a difference from the days when I would have to go find him where he was hiding in the side yard and put him on a leash to bring him inside against his will.

In April, I became suddenly and seriously ill with pneumonia. I spent the first horrible days coughing and moaning on the couch, and since I was stuck at home, I left the back slider open—just in case Thomas decided to join me. This has been one of his idiosyncrasies; though he had become comfortable trotting in the door at night to go to bed inside, he still preferred to be outside during the day. Until I became sick. On the second day of my couch incarceration, he came inside of his own volition after I'd had a particular violent coughing episode. I know that he was checking on me, and it nearly made me cry. He curled up nearby, and eventually we napped together that day, initiating a habit that continued, day after day, even when I returned to work. Because it took so long to recover, I was exhausted by the end of each work day, so I left campus as soon as I could, returning home to sleep for hours before dinner. All I had to do was call Thom after he'd finished his happy dance in the yard. We would both adjourn to the office where I would collapse on the spare bed and he would curl next to it. To hear him sighing contentedly as I drifted off contributed, I'm sure, to my healing.

But lest he receive all the credit, I must include this part of the story: The antibiotic regimen that cured my lungs destroyed my intestines, and despite my best efforts (yogurt every day without fail), I ended up with an excruciating case of C. Diff. In the first, horrific days of that onslaught, I was often doubled over in agonizing pain. During one such bout, as I gasped and sobbed, Purrl suddenly appeared, jumped onto the counter next to me, then slowly, carefully climbed onto my back as I sat hunched over, clutching my abdomen. I started to tell her to get down, but realized she was offering comfort in the only way she knew how. She laid down quietly on my back and stayed there until I finally calmed down and my breathing returned to normal. Then she just as carefully stood up, stepped up to the counter and jumped down to the floor again.

For Purrl, this is her reciprocation for my similar attention to her in February when she suddenly became gravely ill. I spent hours just sitting next to her then, stroking her fur and willing her to pull through. Her illness lasted a week, but she finally rallied. And she has recovered in a big way; before her illness, she weighed in at twelve pounds. Now she is a voluptuous fifteen pounds, and I have had to cut back on her bedtime treats. She still loves Thomas with all her heart, and he still just tolerates her for my sake, but I know he's starting to come around.

What would I do without these two plus Sugar Plum, who now on these warm nights instead of cuddling against me stretches her body the length of my arm so she can sleep with her head resting on my hand? They do depend on me for food and shelter and safety, but we depend on each other for comfort and care. So this time spent on the couch—or on the floor, as I am now—with Thomas is no great sacrifice. My good boy deserves it. And as I type these last words, his head is finally resting on his blanket. The terror from the explosions has subsided, and he sleeps... as I will soon as well.